My dad was my hero. He passed away in June of 2010, at the age of 86.
 
Seventy-seven years ago, he joined the Army, in August of 1940. He was 16 at the time. My aunt Ellen vouched for his age and said he was seventeen, but that wouldn’t happen for another two months. (At 16, I was a lifeguard at the local pool, and playing backup on the high school football team). Before joining the army, he had just finished spending 6 months in the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCCs) in Big Piney, Wyoming, one of President Roosevelt’s programs to end the depression. 
 
In November of 1942, he took part in the invasion of North Africa, after Normandy, the second largest invasion ever. He was 19 at the time, and had already spent a bit over 2 years in the army – enough time to be promoted to sergeant. After taking part in the invasion with the 9th Infantry Division, he fought his way across Tunisia. There were several engagements with the Germans, but he also had time to get in trouble. In fact, he was busted to private, for sneaking into the off limits walled city of Oran (twice) in one night. After being arrested by the MPs, he was turned over to his company, and reported in to the commander. “Sergeant Hall reporting as ordered”….”that will be all, Private Hall”…..
 
In the summer of 1943, still age 19, he took part in the invasion of Sicily. While fighting in the mountains in the center of the island, he was shot three times and almost died. They carried him out of the mountains by hand, and it took over a day to get him to an aid station. After being operated on, he still had difficulties. Turns out he also had malaria. They finally treated the malaria, and he started to recover.
 
The war was over for him, but he remained in the army for another two years. He served as an MP, back in North Africa (talk about irony!), and then was shipped to North Carolina, where he finished out the war. In August of 1945, after Hiroshima, he was mustered out. He was 22 at the time, and had spent 5 years in the army. (33 years later, I was 22, and would soon graduate from West Point).
 
I’ve often thought about how the war must have shaped his life, and because of that, how it shaped mine. We throw around words like “the greatest generation”, but most of us never think about what that really meant to their lives then, or later. They served, they sacrificed, and they went on with their lives. I remember the stories he told as I grew up, but they were almost always the funny stories about the war. It was only after his stroke that I heard some of the other stories.
 
From the time I went to West Point through the rest of my life, I asked him his advice. He was never judgmental, and always helped out. He was a good listener, and always treated me like an adult and a friend.
 
My dad was my hero. He passed away in June of 2010, at the age of 86. I miss him every day.
 

My wife too. My sisters too. My nieces too.  My friends too. I shouldn’t be surprised. The real question is what woman do I know that hasn’t been sexually harassed or assaulted? Anyone?

I’ve known of at least one sexual harassment/verbal assault of Cathy since it happened to her at work in 1990. We talked about suing at that point, but proving the event was going to be difficult. And the asshole who harassed her and showed her dirty stories (and said he’d like to do the same with her) was the husband of the owner of the company. She was getting ready to leave the company already. When she told a female “friend” about the incident, the friend told management. They walked her out of the company later that day. Justice…..

The Harvey Weinstein incident has incited the current “Me too” campaign, but why are we surprised? Our current president has bragged about “grabbing women by the pussy”. Bill Clinton received blowjobs from an intern in the Oval Office – no pressure there, I’m sure. Bill Cosby has drugged women for sex. Our society has tolerated this for so long, we don’t remember when this wasn’t “tolerated”.

When do we as a society say, enough? This is our problem to solve, both men and women. When do we men say to our friends, coworkers, bosses, and relatives, “stop this you dumb shit. It’s offensive to me, AND it’s against the law”. Why is this so hard to do?  Enough.

Hashtags aren’t enough.  Facebook posts aren’t enough.  Telling stories isn’t enough.  What are you going to do to make a difference?
                                                  ** Crude language used purposefully ** 



It was about 8:30 at night when the tree fell on the house. The KA-BOOM was loud, and while the house didn’t shake, you felt it when it happened. We went outside and checked around and found the tree hanging partially on and partially off the roof. Branches were a couple of inches away from our bay window in front of the house, but no windows were broken.

We made two calls that night. One to the insurance company, and one to Allen, who owns Green Acres Tree and Landscaping in Culpeper. Allen was going to a job in Fairfax the next morning, but would stop by on the way to town.

Allen was at the house at 7:15 the next morning, right when he said he would arrive. We looked at the tree, and he said he could take it down, but we were going to need a crane because of the precarious way the tree was hanging on the house. I said fine, let’s do what we need to. Later that day he called me from the road. He’d arranged for a crane the next morning at 8:00 AM, so we were in business. I talked to the insurance company again and the adjuster said he would wait till the tree was down before coming to assess the damage.

Today, Allen and a 6 man crew arrived at 7:30 AM and the crane arrive just after 8:00. The crane was big. I mean really big. They positioned the crane in the yard, and then one of the men climbed onto the skyhook and rode it up above the fallen tree. They lowered him to the tree, where he proceeded to hook ropes around the various branches, and then connect the ropes and belts to the skyhook. Once he completed that, he repelled down from the tree to the ground.


Now the crane took over. Slowly it raised the tree, but the tree wasn’t moving far. They had to cut side branches that were stuck in the ground, and cut the base of the tree away from the stump. John, the crane guy, raised the crane again, and this time, the tree moved freely. Up, and oh so slowly, he move the tree off the house and to the side. Then….stop. One of the branches was up against our big bay window. Two of the guys threw a rope over the branch, and the team pulled it away from the window. John slowly lowered, lowered, lowered the tree until it gently touched the ground. There wasn’t one broken window and there was no new damage to the house. Quite simply amazing.

The truck was gone by 10:00AM and the crew started cutting up the tree. It will be several hours before they finish.

I love it when you can watch professionals at work. Everyone plainly knew their job and did it well. It’s not that they made it look easy, as it wasn’t an easy job. They just went about their work professionally, and you can’t beat that. 

You can bet that I will hire Allen and Green Acres again for any tree work needed. I’d recommend them to anyone here in Northern Virginia.

As we were driving towards Bears Ears, I realized we hadn’t planned enough time, and that four days was going to be too short for a visit. The area was so big, and so beautiful, it was almost overwhelming.

We had arrived in Arizona a few days before and spent some time seeing my cousin in Phoenix, who I hadn’t seen since Dad’s funeral, and then attending the wedding of an old friend from Germany near Prescott. The trip was originally scheduled because of the wedding, and then we expanded it to ten days so we could do some exploring. Originally, we  planned to tour Zion, or Bryce for a few days.   

Then, the Bears Ears Monument controversy heated up with President Trump deciding to downsize the recently established Monument. President Obama had created the Monument in 2016 and it included over one million acres of federal land that had previously been under BLM or National Forest control. All of the local Indian tribes supported the act, as much of this is considered sacred ground. The local non-Indian populace is divided, with some towns actively supporting the creation of the Monument, and others viewing it as a federal land grab (never mind that the land had always belonged to the federal government). President Trump plans to reduce it to 160,000 acres, and open the land up to uranium, oil, and coal mining, although there’s no proof of any minerals being there. We decided to visit the Monument before it was gone, or desecrated.Originally, we were going to drive around some, but mostly spend three days hiking different trails. Then a few days before we left on vacation, Cathy fell from her horse and injured her back. Hiking was pretty much out for Cath, so we would drive around more. It turned out to be an accidental great choice, as we covered more of the area and saw sights that we would have missed.

I won’t bore you with all of the details, but you need to visit this area before it’s reduced to nothing, or overwhelmed with development. We drove through the Valley of the Gods, and saw scenery that blew Sedona away. We visited ruins that had existed since the 1200s and saw petroglyphs that were equally as old. We viewed the “Bears Ears” themselves from several points and directions throughout the area, as they are a dominant feature that can be seen for miles.  They have been known by the name “Bears Ears” for hundreds of years in both English, and several different native languages. 

 There is both great beauty and living history here, a combination that you don’t always see.  In the past, we’ve visited the Grand Canyon, Sedona, Yellowstone, Yosemite, and several other of our national treasures. I would put Bears Ears with them, minus the crowds and development. If you are looking for T-Shirt shops, art stores, fine dining and souvenir stands, this isn’t the place for you. If you want to see amazing views, artifacts of the early years of our land, and not run into thousands of your fellow tourists, put Bears Ears on your list of places to visit.  

No matter what happens, Bears Ears is not going to be around for very long as it currently exists. Either great chunks of the Monument will be opened for mining, or over the next few decades there will be greater development to support tourists. For us, there’s no doubt about this wonderful place. We are already planning a trip to visit the area again next year.



The incessant high pitch of the drill is whining in my ear….Sort of like 100 mosquitos on steroids. Then the burning bone smell hits my nose. The drill is working it’s way into my tooth, and for the next hour or so, I’ll be sitting there with the dentist and his assistant, getting a root canal.  

The day started with a 7:50AM appointment at my dentist’s office. I’d been having some mild pain off and on with a tooth and finally went to see my dentist, DR M____, who is originally from India. At about 8:15, after X-rays and tests, she informs me that I have a cracked tooth, need a root canal, and by the way, could lose the tooth. They give me a referral to a local Endodontist (dental specialist) and then call to set up the appointment for me. Oh…wait a second…if I’m free right now, they have an appointment available in 45 minutes at 9AM. Can I make that? Sure, but it’s at least 30 miles, it’s rush hour, and I might be a few minutes late. No problem. They will hold the spot for me.

I drive in the morning traffic, which is not moving, and amazingly, I don’t care. Who wants to be early for a root canal? I arrive a bit after 9, and they get me in pretty quickly. The dental assistant, N____ , who is originally from Nepal, takes new X-rays. The Endodontist, DR N_____, who is originally from Iran, informs me that yep, the tooth is dead, there is infection, the infection goes into the gum, there is a crack, and I need a root canal. I ask if they can do it today. Let’s check, he says. So we walk up to the front desk, and there’s an appointment open at 1:15PM. OK, I’ll take it. Then the DR says, “You know what? Hang around. I think my next appointment will go quick, and maybe I can sneak you in”.



So, I wait there. And sure enough, about 10:15, DR H comes out and says, “let’s do this”, and back we go….Oral sedative, Novocain, a dental dam and the drilling starts. Then comes the interesting part. They switch to very, very small drills (approximately .5mm I think) to start going into the root canals themselves. One drill, then flush and on to the next drill which is .05mm bigger. Drill, flush, and onto the next drill which is also .05mm bigger than the last one. Another set of X-rays – did they get everything?  Yep.  

In the background there’s music playing. The soundtrack to my root canal includes The Boss, McCartney, The Temptations, Van Morrison, Dylan, and wait a minute…is that Bread?!? “….And I would give anything I own….I’d give up my life, my heart, my home….Just to have you, back again…” Suddenly the pain to my ears is much worse than anything in my mouth. This is an ear worm that I won’t get rid of for days…..

Finally they clean all of the root canals out with antiseptic and start filling them in. It was sort of fun to watch the little puffs of smoke come out of my mouth. Next, a bit of sponge, then they put in a temp filling. Suddenly Doctor N_____ is coming at me with a pair of pliers, and for a brief second, I flash on Laurence Olivier in the movie Marathon Man (…”Is it safe”?), but the vision passes. He is using the pliers to remove the dental dam. With that, we are done for the day.

I look at the clock and it’s about noon. I still need to get a permanent cap at a later date, but amazingly, 4 hours after I started the day at a different dental office 30-some miles away, the work is done, and I’m on my way to recovery. True, my wallet is a bit lighter, but I could hardly have asked for better service, or a better outcome. The only real damage appears to be that the song by Bread, Everything I Own, is still floating around in my brain.

***

***Special thank you to N_____ the dental assistant, for taking the photo of my tooth half way through the procedure. (She didn’t act like I was tooooo weird for asking).  Incidentally, she recently graduated from Georgetown, and plans to go to school to become a dentist next year.

Last Friday, we took our niece Lana to Charlottesville to see Thomas Jefferson’s home at Monticello. On Saturday, the KKK, White Supremacists and Nazis gathered in that same city, sparking violence and terrorism resulting in the death of three people. The juxtaposition between the two days could not have been greater.  

America’s founding fathers were flawed individuals as we all know. Jefferson’s proclamation that “All men are created equal….” conflicts with the fact that he owned over 600 slaves. As we toured Monticello, our guide didn’t hide the facts, but discussed them openly. Part of what makes America great in my mind is that as we march forward and progress, we aren’t afraid to confront our past. That was so true at Monticello as we discussed slavery, Sally Hemmings, and the fact that Jefferson only freed 10 of his slaves during his lifetime. We aren’t a perfect land, but we improve, and we will continue to improve.

Contrast that with Saturday, when these racists, white supremacists and Nazis advocated violence and followed through. Their vision of the future of America stands in stark contrast to what most of us feel and think. The vast majority  of these terrorists came from outside of Virginia, and were here to cause trouble. In that, they succeeded. The police were slow to respond and the violence escalated, resulting in three deaths, including two police officers. These hate-mongers don’t represent me, my Virginia, or my America.  

My niece Lana is a person of color, as are many of my friends, West Point classmates and coworkers. We all need to stand against this type of hatred. Don’t be silent, speak out. Speak out on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and other social media. More importantly, speak out in person, and be the right kind of example. These vile people need to know that there is no place for them or their bigotry in our America.

Do not hunt for a copperhead while wearing flip flops. That was the lesson I learned five years ago.

It was the summer of 2012. We had just returned home from dropping our friend Morgan off in DC. I was in the house and heard Miles, our Jack Russell, barking like a mad dog outside. I went out to investigate, and lo and behold, he was barking at a copperhead snake from about three feet away. The copperhead was near a woodpile by our garage. I called Miles to no avail as he continued to bark and stomp at the snake, but at least he didn’t go closer. I ran in the house, got a leash and came back outside. I approached Miles from the side, where I was able to get him on the leash.  

After locking Miles in the house, I quickly went back outside. The snake had all but disappeared, slithering under the woodpile. I saw the end of it’s tail, quickly grabbed a hoe from the garage, and started moving pieces of wood aside to see if I could find it, and kill it. No snake. It had gone deep into the pile and was not to be seen. I poked, and moved logs to the side, all to no avail. Finally, I gave up, and went in the house.

Later that night, about 10PM, it was time for bed. I was about to let Miles out, when I thought to myself “Ya know, I should check to make sure that snake isn’t out there. I don’t want Miles tangling with it”. So, I put on my flip flops, went out through the back door and crossed the garage, intending to get the hoe from the corner of the garage. As I was about to pick up the hoe, that’s when it happened. There was a severe stabbing pain in my left foot. I flipped on the light and there was the snake coiled up INSIDE the garage next to the hoe, getting ready to strike at me again. I took two wacks at the snake with the hoe, and then started hopping around the garage on one foot, cursing and yelling.

Cathy came to the back door “Are you OK”? …  “No I’m not OK, I just got bit by a F’ing Copperhead”!! I proceeded to yell, hop, and conjugate the F-bomb about 52 different ways. Verb, noun, adverb, adjective – I was yelling all the best phrases from my Army days. Cathy, cool as a cucumber, got me inside and sitting down. By now, my foot was on fire. Think of a hornet sting, and multiply by twenty. We talked back and forth, and as my foot started to swell, she decided to call 911 (Later, she described me as being somewhat whiny at the time).

The ambulance actually showed up quickly, probably no more than 15 minutes after we called. They asked what happened, looked around for the snake, and said they couldn’t find it. In the meantime, they started loading me in the ambulance. My foot was swelling more and they asked what kind of snake. “Copperhead“, I said. “Are you sure“? they asked. “Definitely“. They put a mark on my foot/leg so they could tell how far the swelling was going up my leg. As we drove to town, one of the EMTs said “Well this is unusual. We don’t see this very often“. And I said “Snake Bites“? He answered, “oh no, we see lots of snake bites, but it’s usually in the woods and the victim is drunk“. We drove on. The punchline from a joke about a rattlesnake bite in a sensitive spot, “sorry, you’re going to die” floated through my brain…..

We get to the hospital, and go to the emergency room. More markings on the leg, as the poison continues to rise. Then, there are more questions about what kind of snake. I assure them it was a copperhead. My foot, and the bottom part of my leg are totally on fire, but I can’t have any painkiller yet, as they are still assessing the situation. At that point, the most interesting exchange of the night takes place.

“Do you want us to give you the anti-venom”? ….. “Yes”, I answer.

“Are you sure”? ….  “Yes”, I answer.

“The reason we are asking is that some people have a reaction to the anti-venom. Are you sure you want it”? ….”Yes, definitely”.

“OK. We’ll give it to you. We also have the anti-anti-venom here, in case you need it”.

More leg markings, and finally, about 1 1/2 hours after I was bitten, they give me the anti-venom. After 15 minutes or so, when I’ve shown no adverse reaction to it, they also give me something to lesson the pain. The swelling continues to rise, but now at a slower pace. It finally crests about an hour later.

I ended up spending two nights in the hospital. Normally, it would have been one, but it turns out that I also went into AFIB from the snake bite. When the AFIB didn’t go away on the second day, they paddled me to get my heart beating right again, and I was finally able to go home. During this time I learned that people rarely die from copperhead bites, but the skin can burst open from the swelling. I think getting the anti-venom was definitely the right decision.

The pain and swelling remained for about a week, and I hobbled around on crutches or a cane. I finally moved the entire wood pile a few days later, but the snake wasn’t there. We killed a copperhead about a month later near the barn, but have no idea if it was the same one.  

I’ve told the story over the years and it always gets some gasps and some chuckles. People always laugh at the thought of copperhead hunting while wearing flip flops, and I laugh along. It makes a great story, but I’m not sure it was worth the trade off….

I feel a bit like Charlie Brown. Every year I lose a fight with a ruthless local predator. And every summer, I vow that this year will be different, I’m going to find a way to win. Maybe this will be the year.

We’ve lived at Rohan Farm for eighteen years now. Predators are a part of the environment, and we deal with them on a regular basis. Bear, coyotes, snakes, a bobcat, skunks, foxes, deer….we have them all, and have had incidents with all of them. We have: trash-proofed our garage against the bear; put the cats in at night so the coyotes can’t get them; filled in holes under the barn to prevent skunk from returning; shot and killed a rabid fox; and “deer proofed” the gardens as much as is possible. Also, as most of you know, I was bitten by a copperhead, although we believe we killed it a couple of months later.  

There’s one predator that continues to thwart us, despite our best efforts – The viscous and wily Eastern Gray Squirrel.

We, and apparently the squirrels, own a plum tree. It’s not very big and to be honest, it doesn’t look particularly happy where it is. It’s in semi-shade, and would probably prefer full sun. Some years there’s little or no fruit. Other years there’s a bit more. The tree is trying to do it’s best, but nature seems to conspire against it.

Well actually, nature, and the local squirrels. In eighteen years, I think I have eaten one actual ripe plum from the tree. When we first moved here, I noticed fruit on the tree, but would wake up one day in late summer and the fruit had vanished. It took me a couple of years to notice the squirrels scampering around with plums in their mouths.

So, I tried to get smarter. As the fruit was getting bigger, I’d pluck a plum and try it, so I would know how long to wait to pick the rest for optimal ripeness. But it turned out the squirrels were doing the same thing. I’d see wasted plums under the tree on the ground with little squirrel bites. They were plum connoisseurs and the plums weren’t ripe enough for them either…. until they were ripe enough, and whoosh – all of the fruit would vanish, typically about a day or two before I was going to pick it.  

This has been going on for years. When I was working full time, it was almost impossible to get my timing ahead of theirs. I mean, this had to be a multigenerational thing – most squirrels only live two to three years, which means there have been 6 or 8 generations of squirrels outwitting me.

This year is going to be different though. The tree seems to be doing better, and I don’t know if it’s the weather, the tree getting older, or global warming, but there’s actually quite a bit of fruit on the branches. Carmen seems to be doing a good job of chasing off errant squirrels in the yard. And, I’m investigating netting. Anti-squirrel netting to be exact. It turns out I’m not alone with this problem and there is a lot of info on the web. Also, a lot of strange people seem fixated on squirrels, including one website that says squirrels are planning to take over the world… 

I’m not that strange.    Really.    My goal by the end of the summer, is to enjoy the best tasting plums around…no matter the cost.

Wait a minute, here’s another website that says squirrels eat netting…..hmmmm……

I didn’t know my dad spoke German, until an awkward evening at our former landlord’s home in Helmstadt, Germany. It was thirty three years ago in August of ’82, and mom and dad were visiting us for the first time. We’d been translating for them throughout the trip, and I had no clue dad spoke any German at all. It turns out he had a few phrases he’d been saving in his back pocket.



….Despite the wine, schnapps, and dancing at the winefest the night before, none of us were suffering.  In fact, we were quite chipper.  We had breakfast at the Gasthaus, and then did some touring around Wurzburg. Later, we checked into the Gashaus near our old house in Helmstadt, and after a bier on the patio, cleaned up for the evening. Fred and Helga, our former landlords, had invited us to dinner at their home.

We arrived at Fred and Helga’s and after hugs and handshakes all round, Cathy gave Helga a bouquet of flowers as is customary in Germany. They invited us inside and offered some of the local wine. We had a wonderful meal with them and went through several additional bottles of wine. After dinner, there was dessert and coffee. And after that, Fred brought out his homemade schnapps. In the States, we think of German schnapps as something that is sweet, and maybe has a hint of cinnamon. Real German schnapps is nothing like that. Think of white lightning – this stuff could peel paint off a wall. When served at the end of the night, it’s typically an indication that the evening is coming to a close.  

So, we had a schnapps, and maybe the men all had a second, when dad suddenly said “I speak German.”   Now Cath and I had been translating for them all night long, just as we had for the whole trip. I said to dad something like “dad, you know you don’t speak German, don’t worry, I don’t mind translating.”   Then he insisted that he spoke German. He turned towards Fred, looked straight at him, and in the calmest, most perfect German said: “Hande hoch!   Kommen Sie hier!”. 

There was nothing but silence in the room. Mom, who didn’t understand German, wanted to know what dad said and what was going on. I said nothing, only that it was time to go. We said our goodbyes, again handshakes and hugs, and got in the car. Then I translated for mom – “Dad said ‘Hande hoch! Kommen Sie hier!’ Which translates to – Hands up! Come here!” Mom was furious at dad, but dad didn’t say much, he only smiled a bit.

For those of you who didn’t know my dad, he was the epitome of a gentleman. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what possessed him to say those words that night. I wanted to think that he meant it as a badly timed joke that didn’t work. Later, it hit me. This story took place in early August of ’82. Almost to the day, thirty nine years earlier in August of ’43, he had been shot three three times by a German in Sicily. In fact, he almost died.  

Maybe he meant it as a joke, maybe it was the wine, or maybe he was flashing back to Sicily or the War in general. I don’t know, and he never did offer an excuse as to why he said those words that night. Sometimes it’s OK to give your dad a little room.



     Not everyone can say they were arrested and interrogated by the Russians, but my wife Cathy can. Somewhere in Moscow, they still have a signed confession from her.

It was the winter of 1989 and Cath and I were stationed in Germany. Baerbel (Barbara in English), a German friend of ours who also worked in a travel agency, suggested that she and Cathy go to Moscow for a short trip. There was an upcoming trip her agency was sponsoring, and they, along with another American friend, Cindy, decided to go.

Cathy spoke with our friend Tim, who had studied in Russia for a few months, about the trip and things to do. He gave her a list of “musts”, and one huge caution:

         “Whatever you do, don’t trade currency on the black market. It is very risky, and is punishable by death. The same thing goes for buying items with foreign currency. Use officially purchased rubles only. Also, trading stuff like blue jeans will get you in trouble”.

Cathy thanked him for the advice, and then she and her two friends promptly packed extra jeans, perfume, American cigarettes, and Deutschmarks “just in case an opportunity presented itself”. They didn’t plan to actively seek out the black market, but if there was a chance, well….. Two days later, they flew from Frankfurt to West Berlin (this was about 9 months before the wall fell), linked up with the 25 other Germans on the trip, and made the connecting flight to Moscow. There, a bus took them to their hotel, where they were required to surrender their passport. Cathy was uncomfortable with that, but had no choice.

They weren’t at the hotel for 10 minutes before someone approached them about trading. Cathy and her friends all quickly turned the man down. That night the tour group had dinner together, and the next day, they all toured the city together in a bus. It was fun, but felt a bit stifling, so they decided to do some things on their own that night.

The following day, rather than board the bus for that day’s tour, they decided to wander the city on their own. They walked, cabbed and took the metro around the city. They started to have more casual meetings with some of the citizens, and that meant they felt emboldened. They bought some stack dolls for a ridiculously low price in Deutschmarks. One of them got an army belt buckle for a pack of cigarettes.  

That night at a restaurant, a waiter approached them – “Paul McCartney? Paul McCartney?” McCartney had recently released an album of old rock and roll songs that was recorded in Russia and only available there. Our friend Howard had specifically asked Cathy to look for it, and if she found it, get a copy or two. She bought three copies from the waiter….. They were on a roll now…

On the way back to the hotel, they met a man who wanted to trade for blue jeans. They arranged for him to come up to their room 5 minutes after they went up. There, Cindy started pulling out jeans and trading with the guy. Barbel and Cathy stayed in the background, where they popped a bottle of champagne and watched their friend Cindy go to work.

They next day, Cathy and Barbel ended up in the Arbat, the central district of Moscow with more of an artsy feel. You could find anything possible to buy. Cathy fell in love with a small painting. Now being a renowned black market trader, she didn’t want to pay the full price. Opportunity presented itself when a young man appeared who wanted to trade money. OK.  Twenty German Marks (about eight dollars at the time) exchanged hands for rubles. 

Just as she paid the man is when it happened. Two men approached her, flashed badges, and placed her under arrest for black marketing. They spoke to her in English, and this is when Cathy got a bit smart. She answered in German “Ich verstehe kein English. Ich bin Deutsch”. (I don’t understand English. I’m German). They persisted in English and she spoke only German. And Cathy and Barbel only spoke German to each other. Finally they took her away to a nearby building, with Barbel accompanying them. 

At the building, the interrogation continued, but only in English. And she continued to maintain she didn’t understand much English. This went on for a couple of hours and then they disappeared for a bit. When they came back, they were dragging the guy who had traded the money with Cathy. He didn’t look particularly happy. That’s when Cathy knew the jig was up. They eventually produced some papers written in Cyrillic, with no translation. She signed them. And as suddenly as it began, it was over. She was released.

Outside, Cathy and Barbel walked quickly away. When they’d gone about a block, Cathy said to Barbel “Do you still have some of the cigarettes”?    Barbel answered “you’re not going to trade again, are you”!? And Cathy answered slowly, “No, I’m going to smoke one”.

The last day of the trip passed without incident. They kept expecting to get stopped at the hotel, or at the airport, but they weren’t. The three made it out safely with their ill gotten gains (e.g. – no official receipts), and you will find the stack dolls, the samovar, the McCartney record, and a few other items scattered around our home. Cathy never did get the little painting….